The sitting room was too quiet.
Too neat. Too clean.
Not a speck of dust on the glass display shelves. Not a wrinkle in the velvet curtains. Not even the scent of polish or firewood—just this blank, expensive stillness. The kind of silence that felt intentional, like someone was trying to trap a moment in amber.
And Veyr sat right in the middle of it.
Like a blade someone forgot to sheath.
Copper-red hair glowing faintly in the light through the arched windows. One leg crossed over the other. A book in his lap he hadn't turned a page of in twenty minutes. His eyes, the color of dried blood, were fixed on the door.
Fixed on me.
"Kaelen," he said smoothly. "There you are."
I hesitated in the doorway. Something primal in my chest whispered run.
But I didn't.
Because if I ran now, he'd chase me with something worse than footsteps.
"Please," he gestured to the high-backed chair across from him. "Sit. I won't bite."
Yeah. That wasn't comforting.
I sat slowly. Like lowering myself onto a trap and praying it hadn't been sprung yet.
"You've been training hard," he said, folding his hands beneath his chin. "Your swordsmanship is... improving."
That pause.
Like a dagger pressed against your ribs, but not pushed in.
"Thanks," I said stiffly, not meeting his gaze.
He tilted his head slightly. "Though you still move strangely, sometimes. Like you're listening to music no one else hears."
My chest tightened.
He was watching me. Not just observing. He was studying me like a puzzle he intended to solve, one missing piece at a time.
He set the book down gently on the table and leaned forward. "There's a reason I asked to speak with you."
Of course there was.
"I've spoken with your father. He's agreed it's time you received a formal education worthy of your... potential."
There it was.
The hook. Dipped in honey and buried in poison.
"You'll be leaving for the capital tomorrow morning," he continued, voice pleasant. "The Academy term begins next week. But for someone like you, exceptions can be made."
My breath caught in my throat.
No ceremony. No discussion. Just a signed paper and a room too quiet to argue in.
"I'm not going," I said.
He blinked slowly. As if amused. "Of course you are."
"I didn't agree to this," I snapped, voice rising despite myself. "You can't just decide—"
"I can." His voice was still pleasant. But there was steel behind it now. "And I did. Lord Selkareth signed the papers this morning. The ink's already dry. Your things are being packed as we speak."
I stood. My fists clenched at my sides.
"You don't even know what I am."
He paused.
Then smiled wider.
"You're right," he said softly. "I don't."
He rose with eerie grace, like something feline. "But I will."
He walked past me like I was furniture. Like this conversation was already finished.
Like my choices didn't matter.
And then he was gone.
The silence he left behind wasn't empty. It was filled—with pressure, with dread, with fire that didn't know where to burn.
I found Nareva in the greenhouse that night.
Of course she was already there.
She didn't ask what happened.
She just looked up from a page and said, "You're late."
I dropped onto the stone bench opposite her. My hands were shaking. I hadn't realized until they smudged dirt onto my sleeves.
"They're sending me away," I said.
She didn't flinch.
"Veyr left the documents in the study," she said quietly. "I'm not blind."
I swallowed. My throat felt like it was stuffed with wool.
"Do you want to go?" she asked.
I shook my head.
"Then don't."
"It's not that simple."
"Why not?"
I hated that she asked that.
I hated how the answer lodged in my chest like a stone I couldn't cough up.
"Because if I stay, they'll see it. The magic. Me."
She watched me a long moment.
Then she pulled something from her cloak.
A bundle. Folded cloth. Smooth. Familiar weight.
Inside—flatbread, dried fruit, a waterskin. A few copper marks.
My heart thudded once, hard.
"Nareva…"
"I knew this would happen," she said. "Not today. But soon."
"You're helping me run?"
"I'm giving you a choice," she said gently. "Something no one else bothered to give you."
I opened my mouth. Closed it.
And then she handed me the cloak.
Dark. Thick. A little too big.
Perfect.
"The west wine cellar," she said. "Behind the barrels, there's a drain grate. Crawl through. It runs under the wall. Don't light anything until you're past the second bend."
I stared at her.
"Why?" I asked. "Why are you doing this?"
She reached up. Brushed a curl from my forehead like a mother would.
"Because no one should be locked in a cage for surviving."
That night, I ran.
Not with fireworks or dramatics. Not with tears.
Just me, a cloak, and a fire in my chest too quiet to name.
I left a note on my pillow.
"I'm sorry. I can't."
Then I slipped through the halls. Past Calden's training room. Past Father's study. Past the ghosts of the boy I was supposed to be.
I crawled through dust and stone. Through the drain. Through a tunnel that smelled like damp rust and freedom.
And then I was out.
Grass underfoot. Stars overhead.
No one yelling.
No one watching.
Tharionne was still asleep when I entered it.
I crept through the alleys like a shadow. Cloak pulled tight, ears straining for every sound. The city was softer at night. Not quieter—but softer. The noise didn't demand anything from me. It just… existed.
Like I did.
I walked with aching legs and a burning throat until I reached the hill.
And there she was.
Selaithe.
Perched like a secret that refused to be hidden.
She looked up.
And smiled.
"Took you long enough."
I collapsed beside her.
Not with drama. Not with relief.
Just… with truth.
And she didn't ask anything else.
She just leaned against my shoulder and whispered,
"You ran again."
"Yeah."
"Good."
And the hill was quiet again.
But this time, it felt like peace.
The grass was cold.
Damp with night air and the scent of distant river fog, it pressed against my back like a second skin. I could feel the chill sinking into my ribs, the dew clinging to the folds of my borrowed cloak. My pulse had slowed, finally, but my chest still felt hollow. Like I'd outrun something only to realize it was inside me the whole time.
Next to me, Selaithe lay with her arms folded behind her head, one leg bent, eyes open and staring into the night like it owed her something. She hadn't asked questions. She hadn't pressed.
We hadn't spoken since I collapsed beside her.
We didn't need to.
Not at first.
It was enough just to exist here. In the quiet. Away from the gates, the whispers, the stares. Away from Veyr and Calden and Nareva's haunted eyes and the feeling that every breath I took in the manor was borrowed air.
Then, after a long stretch of silence broken only by crickets and wind, she finally spoke.
"So," she said, in her dry, matter-of-fact voice, "the noble boy finally snapped."
I didn't reply.
Didn't move.
Didn't want to break the moment. Or admit how close her words hit.
She rolled onto her side, propping her head on one hand and facing me. "Did they yell? Scream? Try to lock you in a dungeon? Or just serve cold tea and pretend you didn't exist?"
I blinked, lips twitching despite myself. "It was tea. And paperwork."
Selaithe groaned. "Gods, that's worse. At least if they scream, you know they still think you're real. But paperwork? That's how they erase you without making a sound."
"You think everything's worse when it's quiet," I said.
She flopped back onto her back, grass rustling beneath her. "Because quiet never means peace. Not where I've been. It means someone's hiding. Or someone's being hidden."
I swallowed.
Yeah.
That sounded familiar.
Her voice lowered slightly. "So what did you run from, Kaelen?"
I hesitated. The words felt sharp in my throat. Fragile. Too real.
But then I said it anyway.
"Someone who thinks he owns my future."
Selaithe gave a long, low whistle. "Yikes."
"And a place," I added, "that would cage me just for being something it doesn't understand."
She didn't speak right away.
This time, her silence felt different. Not curious. Not waiting.
Just listening.
Then she said, gently—more gently than I'd ever heard her speak, "You don't have to say more. Not unless you want to. But if you do… I'm not leaving."
The words shouldn't have hit me so hard.
But they did.
And that silence between us stretched again. Not heavy. Not awkward.
Soft.
The kind of stillness that held breath and memory and something unspoken that wasn't quite safety, but maybe… the hope of it.
I turned my head toward her.
Eyes open.
And whispered, "Thank you."
She didn't say anything at first.
But I heard her shift closer in the grass. Felt her shoulder barely brush mine.
Then—quietly, with a tiny smile ghosting her lips—she said, "So what now, runaway?"
I stared up at the sky.
The stars didn't look the same tonight. Brighter. Wilder. Like they'd shifted in the hours since I left the estate. Or maybe I had. Maybe that was all it took. One step off the path, and nothing fit the same anymore.
"Now?" I said. "Now I figure out how not to get caught."
"Hah." She gave a low laugh and tossed a pebble into the dark. "I like you, Kaelen."
I didn't flinch.
Didn't retreat.
I didn't even hate hearing it.
We stayed like that for a long time.
She told me about the tree she'd climbed last spring that had a nest of horned crows. About how she once stole a whole basket of candied plums from a baker and gave them out to every orphan she could find before her father found her and nearly tore the sky down with rage.
I told her half-truths about the manor. How the servants walked like shadows and how Nareva hummed when she thought no one was listening. I told her about the broken tiles in the greenhouse, the ones I traced my fingers over during spell practice when I didn't want to think about who I was supposed to be.
We didn't talk about Veyr. Or magic.
But we didn't not talk about it either.
It hung between us. Unnamed. Respected.
Eventually, she asked, "Are you staying with me?"
The question was simple.
But it carved something deep.
I thought about Nareva's hands, wrapping food in a cloth. About her voice, steady even when everything else felt like it was shattering.
I thought about Calden's silence. About his refusal to flinch, even when I broke.
I thought about my father.
And then I thought about this hill. The stars. The girl beside me who hadn't asked for a single thing but gave me space anyway.
"Yes," I said.
"Good," she said. "Because you snore and I need evidence."
I snorted.
She grinned.
The night wore on.
We didn't sleep much.
But I didn't need to.
For the first time in a long time… the silence didn't scare me.